But there we were, in the last place I wanted to be, driving my APC into the massed field artillery of the Russian army that August afternoon in 1973. Of the eighty-four APCs and light tanks that advanced into the Russian guns, only two vehicles returned. Out of the five hundred and thirty-four soldiers involved, fifty-one survived.

It was the moment before the barrage began. My CO, Major Phelps, was riding on the outside as he liked to do, foolhardy idiot that he was, and to my left and right I could see the other armoured vehicles throwing up large swathes of summer dust from the parched land. We could be seen for miles. The first salvo was so unexpected that I thought the munitions in a light tank had simply ignited by accident; the whine of a near-miss made me realise that it hadn't. I changed direction instantly and started to zigzag. I looked to Phelps for orders but he was slumped in the hatch; he had lost the lower part of his arm and was unconscious. The barrage was so intense that it became a single rumbling growl, the pressure waves thumping the APC so hard that it was all I could do to keep my hands on the controls.

I read the official report two years later; there had been forty-two guns trained on us from a thousand yards and they had expended three hundred and eighty-seven rounds of high-explosive shells — about four to each vehicle. It had been like shooting fish in a barrel.

Sergeant Tozer took command and ordered me to an APC that had lost its tracks and been thrown upside down. I parked behind the wrecked carrier as Tozer and the squad jumped out to retrieve the wounded.

'But what were you really thinking about?' asked Aornis, who was beside me in the carrier, looking disdainfully at the dust and oil.

'Escape,' I said. 'I was terrified. We all were.'

'Next!' yelled Tozer. 'Stop talking to Aornis and take us to the next APC!'

I pulled away as another explosion went off. I saw a turret whirling through the air, a pair of legs dangling from beneath it.

I drove to the next APC, the shrapnel hitting our carrier almost continuously like hail on a tin roof. The survivors were firing impotently back with their rifles; it wasn't looking good. The APC was filled with the wounded and as I turned round something hit the carrier a glancing blow. It was a dud; it had struck us obliquely and bounced off — I would see the yard-long gouge in the armour plate the following day. Within a hundred yards we were in relative safety as the dust and smoke screened our retreat; pretty soon we had passed the forward command post where all the officers were shouting into their field telephones, and on to the dressing areas beyond. Even though I knew this was a dream, the fear felt as real as it had on the day, and tears of frustration welled up inside me. I thought Aornis would carry on with this memory for the return run to the barrage, but there was clearly a technique behind her barbaric game; in a blink we were back on the roof at Thornfield Hall.

Acheron carried on where he had left off; he was looking at me with a triumphant expression.

'It may come as some consolation,' he carried on, 'that I planned to bestow upon you the honour of becoming Felix9— Who are you?'

He was looking at Aornis.

'Aornis,' she said shyly.

Acheron gave a rare smile and lowered his gun.

'Aornis?' he echoed. 'Little Aornis?' She nodded and ran across to give him a hug.

'My goodness!' he said, looking her over carefully. 'How you have grown! Last time I saw you you were this high and had barely even started torturing animals. Tell me: did you follow us into the family business or did you flunk out like that loser Styx?'

'I'm a mnemonomorph!' she said proudly, eager for her sibling's approval.

'Of course!' he said. 'I should have guessed. We're in that Next woman's memories right now, aren't we?'

She nodded enthusiastically.

'Attagirl! Tell me, did she actually kill me? I'm only here as the memory of me in her mind, after all.'

'I'm afraid not,' said Aornis glumly, 'she killed you well and good.'

'By using treachery? Did I die a Hades?'

'I'm afraid not — it was a noble victory.'

'Bitch!'

'Seconded. But I'll have the revenge you deserve, dear brother, you can be sure of that.'

A family reunion like this should have been heart warming but I can't say I was moved. Still, at least it kept us away from the Crimea.

'Mother's very upset with you,' said Aornis, who had the Hades penchant for straight talking.

'Why?'

'Why do you think? You murdered Styx.'

'Styx was a fool and he brought shame on the Hades family. If Father were still alive he would have done the job himself

'Well, Mother was very upset about it and I think you should apologise.'

'Okay, next time. Wait a moment, I'm dead — I can't apologise to anyone. You apologise for me.'

'I'm a mnemonomorph, remember — and this is only me as a mindworm; a sort of satellite persona, if you like. Listen, if I knew where Thursday was, she'd be dead already. No, when I can report back to Aornis proper, this is what we'll do—'

'Psssst!' said a voice close to my ear. It was Granny Next.

'Gran!' I said. 'Am I glad to see you!'

'C'mon,' she said, 'while Aornis is distracted.'

She took my hand and led me across the roof to the window where we entered the building. But instead of the burning remains of Thornfield Hall we were on the sidelines of a croquet match. Not any croquet match: it was a World Croquet League final — a SuperHoop. I used to play croquet quite seriously until SpecOps work absorbed all my free time. The two teams were in their body armour, leaning on their willow mallets and discussing strategy during a time-out.

'Okay,' said Aubrey Jarnbe, who was wearing the captain's sweater, 'Biffo is going to take the red ball from the forty-yard line over the rhododendron bushes, past the Italian sunken garden and into a close position to hoop five. Spike, you'll take it from there and croquet their yellow — Stig will defend you. George, I want you to mark their number five. He's a Neanderthal, so you're going to have to use any tricks you can. Smudger, you're going to foul the duchess — when the vicar gives you the red card, I'm calling in Thursday. Yes?'

They all looked at me. I was in body armour too. I was a substitute. A croquet mallet was slung round my wrist with a lanyard and I was holding a helmet.

'Thursday?' repeated Aubrey. 'Are you okay? You look like you're in a dream world!'

'I'm fine,' I said slowly, 'I'll wait for your command.'

'Good.'

A horn went off, indicating the time-out was over. I looked up at the Scoreboard. Swindon was losing 12 hoops to 21.

'Gran,' I said slowly, watching the team run out to continue play, 'I don't remember this.'

'Of course not!' she said, as though I were a fool. 'This is one of mine. Aornis will never find us here.'

'Wait a moment,' I said, 'how can I be dreaming with your memories?'

'Tch, tch,' she scolded, 'so many questions! It will all be explained in due course. Now, do you want to go into some of that deep, dreamless sleep, and get some rest?'

'Oh, please!' '

'Good. Aornis will not bother you again tonight — I shall watch over you.'

She approached a burly croquet player who had only one ear. After saying a few words, she pointed at me. I looked around at the stadium. It was the Swindon croquet stadium, yet somehow different. Behind me in the dignitaries' box I was surprised to see Yorrick Kaine speaking to one of his assistants. Next to him was President Formby, who gave me a smile and a wave. I turned away, my eyes looking into the crowd and falling upon the one person that I did want to see. It was Landen, and he was bouncing a young child on his lap.